


Rebuilding 221B

by KittenKin



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Developing Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-30 11:51:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17828027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittenKin/pseuds/KittenKin
Summary: I wrote up a quick edit to the end of S04E03 after watching a YouTube video of the “Mary’s DVD” epilogue and hyperfix-hating one tiny part of it with a volcanic passion, sort of like a person flipping a table over and then kicking it wholesale into a wall because their perfectly baked eggplant parm had the audacity to come out with a sprig of cilantro on it instead of Italian parsley.Don’t try to understand or assist me, peeps. Just watch from a safe distance and enjoy the warm glow of the tire fire. *blows kiss*





	Rebuilding 221B

**_“My Baker Street boys; Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson.”_ **

A rich, poignant silence fell, broken only by the faint blip of the screen powering off and some soft scratches as Sherlock sleeved the DVD case back into the envelope. It was hardly something they were likely to watch over and again, and it seemed right, somehow, to seal it away.

To lay a ghost to rest.

As he set the envelope down, the detective let loose a breath just one beat removed from a sigh. Under the relief at this second of Mary’s messages being so much more amicable and approving than the disc he’d viewed alone, there was also regret. Back to the beginning, then. Not all the way back to the crime-solving junkie and war-addicted soldier, but to their beginning; the detective and his blogger.

They had Mary’s blessing, but from another perspective, she had also set her limits. What they could become was not to be discovered together as they moved on, but was rather already defined by - and restricted to - what they had been. They would be friends and flatmates, and nothing more.

“No, fuck that.”

Or perhaps not.

“John?”

“I am not her _anything_ anymore,” John said, calm and cool, like a bomb that hadn’t detonated. Yet. “And she does not tell me who I am, or where I’ll be, or what I’ll be doing.”

Sherlock had been staring, wondering at this unexpected outburst, but now he turned away, stung. Not even with Mary’s blessing, then. John had helped him paint and paper, but that might be all, in the end. He would help Sherlock rebuild the flat, but not restore all that they’d lost between them. How could he, truly?

Sherlock took a step toward the window, looking to buy some time and distance in which to collect himself. John was angry, on his feet now and still ranting in fact, so Sherlock’s best bet was to be aloof.

“As if we could just pick up where we left off, as if the past few years hadn’t happened! As if we still are that ‘junkie’ and 'soldier’ who just need to meet for everything to fall into place! How dare she tell me to set right down by the fire and wait for clients with you as if nothing’s wrong?! I know she wasn’t stupid so she’s just being cruel!”

Sherlock stopped, turned, and then searched for some words with which to convey his confusion.

“…John?” He’d become a psittacine of some sort, apparently, and not a very bright one at that since he only seemed to know one word.

“Sorry, Sherlock,” John replied, not looking at him and not looking all that sorry, either. But he was magnificent all the same; all frowns and flame, ruffled hair and piqued temper. Sherlock could only blink, as before a roaring fire that enchanted the eyes at the same time as it dried them out and stung at them.

“Just…” John scrubbed at his silver-shot hair, then threw his hands up in disgust. “I don’t know; maybe she was sincere, though I fucking doubt it. I don’t care either way; I’m not doing it, is all.”

He looked up, then, and Sherlock must have looked as lost as he felt, because some of the tension melted away from John’s shoulders and he quirked his eyebrows up a bit.

“I mean…I’m here, if you’ll have me. Us, I mean, Rosie and me.” John gestured vaguely around at the flat, where there was just as much evidence of the Watsons as there was a Holmes. “But you deserve so much more than who I was when we first met, and who I am now. I’ll sit in my chair, Sherlock, and you’d better take me along on cases - _especially_ if they’re dangerous - but…”

He folded his lips between his teeth and chewed, something like anxiety or nerves overtaking his earlier burst of anger. Sherlock tried to see more clearly, but he was too impatient to hear the continuation and gave the deduction attempt up as a bad job.

“But?” Ah, excellent, he had a vocabulary of more than just “John” now. He upgraded himself from a budgerigar to a cockatoo.

“But I’m also going to make appointments to talk to a therapist again,” John said firmly, after squaring himself up and taking a deep breath.

“And I’m going to…I’m going to learn to talk, funny as that sounds. I owe you so many words, Sherlock,” he said, wearing a smile but sounding as if he wept. “Apologies, explanations if you want them, and questions too, that I ought to have cared enough to ask.”

The possibilities were endless, and Sherlock very nearly demanded a list of subjects on the spot. But even if John knew what he wanted to say, he seemed to know himself ill-equipped to actually communicate. Sherlock could be honest enough to admit that John had the right of it, and that he himself would likely no sooner open his mouth to respond or retort than he’d put his foot right in it. If time spent with a therapist could smooth the way for future conversations - important ones, by the sound of it - then Sherlock could wait. _Should_ wait.

At his nod, John smiled more naturally, and after a few hems and false starts,

“All right, then? Rosie and I upstairs, and I guess you and I will be the Baker Street boys again, but I’d like us to be…different, or…better, I guess. More. I don’t know. Um…like I said. Therapy. And talking.”

John floundered and grew flustered, and his unease somehow made Sherlock feel less uncertain himself.

“I play the violin when I’m thinking,” he said softly, and smiled at the recognition in John’s eyes.

“I just tend to sit and stare.”

"I’ve been known to sulk for days on end. Would that bother you?”

“I think I’ll manage. I have a short temper, but I’m working on controlling it.”

“That’s good enough to be going on with, don’t you think?” Sherlock held out a hand, and John was stepping forward to take it before he’d even got it to waist level.

“Yeah. I do.”


End file.
